


Baptism by Fire

by Anonymous



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Forced Orgasm, Hand Jobs, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Prostate Massage, Rape, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Booker Dewitt will never accept a savior. Zachary Hale Comstock will never accept a heretic.
Relationships: Zachary Hale Comstock/Booker DeWitt
Kudos: 41
Collections: Anonymous





	Baptism by Fire

[pic here](https://rule34.xxx/index.php?page=post&s=view&id=1314771)

* * *

"Can't you understand?"

Comstock's voice is so soft that at first Booker doesn't register that he has spoken. It's not until those wizened fingers are buried in his hair, yanking his head up, that he realizes.

"You gave her the greatest gift a father can give." Comstock's eyes meet his. "A better life. What would have happened to her as your daughter? She would be no better than a common whore. She would be sleeping with negroes while you drank yourself into a stupor. I have given her everything a child could desire."

"Except love," Booker spits. Even as the words take shape they feel foolish, idealistic, a flimsy denial. He almost wrenches his right arm free but one of Comstock's fanatics strikes him in the side of the head so hard that his eyes lose focus.

Comstock watches him without speaking as they force him back down. Under his gaze Booker tries to center himself.

"What would you know of love?" Comstock asks softly. "You refuse to accept the greatest love of all."

His temple throbs. "You and your damn baptism."

"You have never given yourself to anyone. Not God, not Annabelle. Not even yourself."

He digs his fingers into the flesh of the man holding his right arm down and when the man winces he gathers enough strength to pull away. He reaches for Comstock. Both of their eyes catch on the neat sharp brand of Annabelle's initials.

"You think that disproves it?" Comstock chuckles bitterly. "Self-mutilation is not love, Mr. DeWitt." He takes Booker's hand in his own. His flesh is soft, the callouses gained from waging war long since faded, but he is strong. Booker tries to pull from him and can't. "Your body is a gift from God and you treat it as carelessly as a scrap of paper." With the tip of a single chilly finger he traces the scars. "Why are you trembling?"

Booker grits his teeth and says nothing.

"Gentlemen." Comstock's eyes sweep his fanatics. "Will you leave me with the false prophet for a moment?"

Doubt pours out of them like the stink of sweat, but none of Comstock's followers speak. One releases Booker's shoulder. Another eases up on his thigh. One after another they let go of him and leave the room until only one remains. That man looks at Comstock, looks at Booker, shakes his head and leaves.

When they are alone Comstock turns away from him. Booker watches as he hunts for something in his desk. They've taken his weapons and the skyhook, but the vigors are still there and he thinks he might have just enough left in him to throw out one last Shock Jockey charge.

It's too easy, he thinks. Comstock wouldn't... _he_ wouldn't...

But it's all he has left. He holds the vigor in his hand, a burning tingling whirl of sparks, and he searches the room for something to use as a weapon. There's nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He lets it go.

There's a flash and a snap as the Shock arcs through the air--that's it, that's all Booker has in him, he sinks to one side to wait for whatever happens next--and as Comstock turns to see what is happening the bolt strikes him full on in the shoulder. He grunts in surprise. His body is stiff and jerking as it falls to the floor. He sounds like he's growling, but he's still moving and there's nothing Booker can use as a weapon, he can barely even keep himself upright. He tries to drag himself toward the door but he feels the tingling in his leg and before he can process what's happening Comstock's hand has closed around his ankle and the lightning takes him too.

His body is like a stone weighing him down. He tries to lift his head and can't even do that.

Comstock is over him, ripping back his shirt. His hand is locked around Booker's tie, hanging him from that while he strips off the vest and shirt.

"The hell... are you..." Booker manages to breathe.

Comstock doesn't answer. He's moved on to the belt, yanking it back until the buckle is loosened.

He hadn't expected Comstock to be this strong, not an old man like him. But he wasn't old, was he? He and Booker were both of an age, and he had not spent all his strength on barely-contained vigors. The tears may have aged his appearance, but Comstock seems twice Booker's size. One of his huge meaty hands hooks over the waist of Booker's pants and yanks.

Suddenly the cold air is on his hips, his groin, lower, Comstock is dragging the belt down. Booker grabs at his wrists and thrashes as hard as he can. "Get off me!"

Throwing the last of the clothes into a corner, Comstock runs his eyes down Booker's body. One freezing hand clamps down on his upper thigh and the other slams his head back into the floor. "So this is what came of your lack of faith. Is it everything you dreamed it would be?" Comstock easily shakes off his grasping hands. His own tremble as they unknot the tie at Booker's throat. "Has it garnered you anything at all?"

Booker's head is spinning. He tries to sit up and a rush of nausea seizes his throat.

"No," Comstock says, "I didn't think so."

And he takes Booker's cock into his hand.

It's like the shock hits him again. He winces so hard his body jolts against the floor and he feels every grain of dirt, every stray hair, every splinter in wooden boards. The breath he pulls in hits him so hard he feels vertigo set in.

"Easy," Comstock warns him. "After a shock like that you're in no shape to be thrashing. If you can't restrain yourself I have people who can do it for you."

His hand tightens just a bit, and the vertigo turns to lightheadedness. The blood rushes down to where Comstock's skin meets his. There's a stirring and... it's only natural, he tries to tell himself. This is what happens when he touches himself. The only difference is that Comstock isn't likely to take no for an answer.

Comstock looks at him with those cold blue eyes and rubs him slowly, up and down and up and Booker wants to kill him but is too tense to move.

Comstock squeezes, a quick too-tight pulse that draws a groan from Booker's throat. He lets up until all he's doing is stroking the tip of his penis between his thumb and forefinger. It's gentle, it's... it's teasing. The sensation is already too much. It's getting him hard, no matter how he tries to ignore it. Booker's entire body is on edge, he's trying to crush everything down inside himself, but the feeling doesn't leave and it's all he can do to keep himself from thrusting up into Comstock's hand.

"You can't even allow yourself pleasure." Comstock shakes his head. "You turned your face from God for nothing."

He lets go of Booker and the relief sends him reeling. He allows himself just a moment to close his eyes and try to put himself back together.

He opens them as something stabs directly into him.

He can't hold back a cry as his awareness comes back, sharper and clearer than before. A... a finger, it's Comstock's finger in him, slick with something cold and wet, and he smashes his heel into Comstock's chest trying to push himself away, but though the intrusion is gone--thank christ, thank christ, thank--both of Comstock's massive hands close around his ankles and he yanks Booker's legs apart.

Something pops, his hip, knee, hard to tell, but pain unanchored to any place on his body tears through him and Comstock lurches forward, shoving his bulk between Booker's thighs and pinning his forearm to his throat.

"The lubrication is for your benefit, not mine." He sounds out of breath--through the pain Booker is faintly smug, he got a hit in even like this--and his lungs rattle as he pulls in air. "I guarantee this will not be pleasurable without it."

Without being aware of it Booker tries to twist away. The scratch of Comstock's rough tweed coat against his bare cock all but chokes him.

"There are so many ways I can make this unpleasant, Booker. Do you want me to call those men back? Or would you rather I bring Elizabeth instead?"

The blood runs cold in his veins. "You wouldn't," he chokes out.

"No," Comstock agrees. "Not if you do as I say."

What choice does he have? If Comstock's threatening to bring Elizabeth into this, then what choice is there?

"I believe we understand each other." Comstock pushed himself back upright. "Are you going to continue to fight me?"

His neck, no, his entire body, is tense and stiff, but he feels himself shake his head.

"A verbal answer, please, DeWitt."

"No." The voice that answers isn't his, can't be his, but it's coming from his throat. "I won't."

"You won't what?"

Christ. "I won't fight. Just... just do what you want to me."

Comstock gives him a soft smile. "That's your plan, is it? Just lie back and think of England?"

One finger inside him, followed by a second, scissoring apart and forcing a groan from him. His cock twitches. He's harder than he's been in years.

"I don't think so. You have to work towards redemption." Through blurred vision Booker sees him look down at his dick. "Go on and take care of that."

His fingernails scratch deep into the floorboards.

"Go on. You need to work toward your own salvation."

A third finger. His back arches up, it's too tight, he can't possibly...

"I know you haven't forgotten. I haven't. All those long nights, all that bloodlust and they expected you to just turn it off?"

With his free hand Comstock takes out his own penis and god he's massive and rock hard, Booker is shaking, and now Comstock removes his fingers and Booker gasps. Now he's scooping something from a covered dish, some kind of gel, and smearing it on his own cock and Booker knows, doesn't he, where this is going, tries to press his legs together but Comstock gives him a look and says one word. He says, "Elizabeth."

Booker's mouth is so dry.

"You're an active participant in this." Comstock is still fully clothed but he strokes himself as he looks down at Booker. "I want you to spread yourself for me."

For a moment he doesn't understand and he does nothing. Comstock grabs his hands and yanks them easily together toward him. One finger strokes down his perineum and pauses at the opening below.

"Okay," Booker croaks. "I'll..."

Comstock lets go of his hands and Booker feels them come to rest on his inner thighs. He slides them around, under his legs and with his heart in his throat he digs his fingers into his skin and opens himself as wide as he can.

As if moving at half speed Comstock moves forward, adjusts Booker's hips--his cock twitches, hard, his pulse is pounding inside him--and with one hand guides himself to rest the tip of his penis just between Booker's fingers.

This is a dream. This isn't happening. This is some other reality, he isn't the man in this body.

Comstock drives himself in.

Even with lubrication it's like being split apart and a broken wail escapes Booker's lips before he can bring his hands up and cover his mouth so that the men outside don't hear, so that Elizabeth, wherever she is, doesn't hear.

"Stop," he begs. "Stop, slow, please!"

Comstock pauses. He isn't entirely in and yet Booker can feel his pulse pounding against his own. He's stretched too far, he's sure something has torn, knows he is bleeding, knows he's dying. He doesn't fight back as Comstock takes his hands and guides them to his own cock. Despite the pain it's as hard as before.

"You're so damn tight," Comstock whispers, his voice hoarse and husky.

"Jesus christ," Booker says. The sob of the words rocks through him.

Comstock gives a strained chuckle. "Too late to involve Him, Booker." He drives himself in up to the hilt.

Booker's consciousness almost comes apart at the edges. Never in his life has he seen stars like he does now. It hurts so badly he's sure it will kill him, but the precum dripping from his dick down his hands and wrists implies otherwise.

"You can make this easier on yourself." Comstock pulls back just a little--Booker chokes on a sob--and rolls his hips forward. It's too much. His body is bearing down and that only makes it more painful. He's unconsciously trying to close his legs and without realizing it he's wrapping his legs around Comstock's waist. "You know what will make this easier."

He does. His fingers tighten around his own dick and he tugs at himself and prays he can cum quickly.

"There it is." Comstock rolls his hips just slightly back and forth and Booker's toes curl at the sensation. He rubs himself harder. Faster. Comstock's massive hands slide up over him and trace the outline of the muscles in his abdomen, move higher still, and then he tweaks both nipples so hard that Booker gives a wordless bellow. "Come on. I know you need this."

He needs this? He needs it? Booker would snap back something bitter and sarcastic but then Comstock rises up a little, driving him down into the floor and he brushes something inside that feels like a shock directly inside him. For a moment Booker is sure he's going to lose any semblance of control, come apart there, but then that feeling comes again and again as Comstock thrusts faster and the fear in his throat doesn't stop him from frantically rubbing the head of his cock as a mess of sounds pour from his mouth.

"Come on," Comstock moans, and it feels like he's slamming into that spot over and over and Booker's hips roll with him and he feels a pressure building up inside him that he has never felt, not even with Annabelle and he moans and begs, "Christ, christ," and the pressure explodes into an agonizing warmth and he orgasms so hard he feels the cum splatter onto his chest and he swears he can taste the saltiness of it in his mouth as he screams.

"Ah, god.." Comstock thrusts once more, twice more and the stimulation is so much that Booker's eyes lose focus and he jerks his head from one side to the other, arching up off the floor and then Comstock cums too.

He fills Booker utterly, fills him to the brim and his hips slow before he eases out of him.

Comstock pants as he slides free. He looks down at Booker and at how he has been stretched and at his own seed leaking from him. The man he could have been has accepted a baptism at last. All it took was a little force.

"Spread yourself for me," he says in a low voice that is almost a growl. "Let me see what you can take."

Booker can only stare at him, panting at the sudden emptiness. His hands shake as he digs his fingers into his skin and opens himself as wide as he can.


End file.
